Bad Blood
by WinchesterNimrod
Summary: [Unhinged Peter AU] In a darker universe, Peter never got to hear Uncle Ben's last words. And the effects are catastrophic. [superfamily! Gore]
1. Chapter 1

[Peter is seriously unhinged here so please prepare yourselves dearies]

This story is based upon Andrew Garfield movies.

Just a quick plot bunny that's been bouncing away in my head for a while. Hope you enjoy :D

.

Prologue

There are times where Peter often mistakes water for blood.

Of course, the water has to be warm. Peter's never felt cold blood before and if he ever were to, he's certain he'd be skipping PE during the summer and never shower again. It's hard enough taking cold showers – even though he's slowly gotten used to it – if he were to never shower again, Aunt May would

Well, Aunt May wouldn't say a thing.

She never does.

Peter closes his eyes, feels the warm water rush over his hands and the smell of copper fills his nostrils.

 _"Uncle Ben, who did this? Who did this to you?"_

"Another chore from Stark?"

Peter opens his eyes, see's Sam's reflection in the cabinet glass above his head and grins.

"Just making his life a little bit easier. It's the least I can do."

Sam smiles ruefully, "There is such a thing as dishwashers."

"Electricity bill."

"Kid, you're way too young to be worrying about taxes."

"Didn't you hear? My generation matures early."

Sam raises his hands in defeat, "Fine. Have fun with the suds you weirdo do-gooder. If you need me I'll be in Natasha's room."

Peter silently turns his head to stare, making Sam go scarlet.

" _Not like that!_ Jesus, kid how old are you?"

"My generation – "

"Leaving." Sam marches off. Ears burning. "I'm leaving!"

Peter's smile disappears the moment Sam does, leaving him staring at the dirty dishes from lunch soaking in red bubbles.

They weren't really red though, that was simply his imagination.

.

Part I

Tony Stark adopts him sometime after Aunt May gets hospitalised.

"Why?" Peter had asked, genuinely interested when he's told by the social worker. The woman, older than his aunt, looks as though she had swallowed a lemon at his question.

"Be grateful you're not in an orphanage like all the other boys and girls your age." At Peter's blank, expectant look she eventually gives him the answer he wanted. "Mr Stark is a distant cousin of your late mother's. Be thankful to God next time you pray."

"Huh."

Tony Stark isn't what his nine-year-old self would have expected. He doesn't appear in the Iron Man suit like an avenging angel. He doesn't flash a dazzling, front cover page smile, or give him a hug for his mounting loss. He simply turns up in a sports car, expression strained, and signs the dotted line.

He doesn't help him with his things. He doesn't even _look_ at him when Peter politely introduces himself.

It's like Peter wasn't even a person.

Didn't even exist.

 _Tony Stark,_ Peter thinks behind his civil smile, _you are an asshole._

.

Peter has misgivings about believing in superheroes.

It started when Uncle Ben died in his arms on a dirty sidewalk. His cries left unanswered even to the dosed up homeless man across the street.

He had sat there, in a pool blood and piss with the scent of cheap alcohol and excrement hanging in the air.

(That was also the time he realised that when people die, nothing's there to stop them from urinating)

.

"You must be Peter," Captain America greets him when Peter's settling into his new home. The man is large with biceps bigger than his face. There's a phantom pain somewhere deep in his shoulder from the last time they met.

It wasn't on great terms. The man had interrupted him from work by grabbing and shoving him against the alley wall.

Peter holds back his wince when they shake hands.

"Captain," he nods.

"Please," Captain gives a dimpled smile, and Peter can't believe this is the same man that has a kill count higher than Charles Manson. "We'll be living under the same roof from now, so you have the freedom to call me by my God-given name."

"Thank you," Peter says. Meaning it. He couldn't imagine living with someone and calling them Captain.

It sounded like a bad porno.

"It's a privilege."

Steve doesn't notice the difference between the lie and the truth, and decides to casually engage him in some small talk. About his history, school, friends – of which he makes up on the spot – and some other pointless things like hobbies or sport.

"Not the sporting type either, huh?" Steve appears to empathise with him. "I heard your school likes basketball." _Oh?_ Peter wonders. Starting to get a bit irritated at his prodding. "No interest?"

He thinks back to Flash. All the times he and the basketball team got away with beating him black and blue, taunting him, shoving his books. Being the general classification of the shit society cherishes.

He thinks; _those sons of bitches_ and answers with a shrug, "Not really a fan, to be honest."

.

Night after night, Peter lay awake in his bed staring at the mould on his ceiling. Waiting for the call from the station saying they had caught him. The man who made him sit in a homeless man's drying piss as he cradled Uncle Ben in his arms.

The rage of revenge burned the back of his throat. An itch behind the shoulder blades he couldn't scratch.

Night after night Peter waited.

The call never came.

Eventually Peter stopped waiting.

When Aunt May came in to check on him, his bedroom window was open. Curtains swaying in the night air.

"Oh, Peter."

.

His new room is bigger than his old one. There's lots of space to fill, and Peter finds it easy doing just that. Due to his family being on the poor side, it takes less than half an hour unpacking.

When he's done, Peter lies on his new bed. Immediately groaning on impact in pure, shameless satisfaction. The mattress is softer than a bed of clouds and coerces him into sleeping.

Someone knocks at his door.

 _What the fuck?_

Peter raises his head to stare accusingly at an unfamiliar, but sort of familiar head peaking in.

"Little man?"

"Yeah?" Peter responds cautiously.

"Dinner." And then disappears. For a long moment Peter wonders if he might have hallucinated the whole thing and lies back down. But then the door opens again and the same head pops back in.

"Little man, dinner."

Still unsure, Peter slides out of bed and pads out the room, following the mysterious man down a corridor and into the main room. A table that wasn't there when he came has materialized, and with it all of the avengers minus Miss Potts who had introduced herself in the elevator not an hour ago.

Peter pauses a few feet away.

When Aunt May was in the hospital, Peter remembers breaking down to Gwen on the phone. He remembers telling her every horrible thing that lead up to that moment, remembers heaving and almost throwing up as truths spilled out in an ugly rush. Peter can still hear her soft, forgiving voice telling him that everything was alright and he didn't need to feel scared.

He remembers how on that same day, his phone had died. Peter had dropped it on the subway that morning.

Also, Gwen was six feet under next to her late grandma.

"You alright, Pete?" Steve asks while pouring the man who says 'little man' too much, a glass of water.

"Uh-huh." This situation was shitty. Peter strolls over, trying to act casual while his hand brushes uncertainly against a free chair next to a scary-looking man. His heart steadies at the soft wood and Peter grips it confidently. Seating himself down and observing the food on his place.

Chinese?

"None of us cook." Steve blushingly admits.

Again, this was a man who's a complimentary serial killer.

"Not to your liking?" A woman with red hair, Black Widow, purrs more than asks. It has no desired affect on Peter other than slight wonder at how she did it.

"It's fine," he smiles.

 _This is horrible._ He thinks, nose hairs coiling when he takes a curious sniff. Did they order this from Hell's Kitchen? It smells like somebody drenched it in sesame oil and prayed they wouldn't notice.

 _There goes my stomach lining,_ Peter thinks mournfully.

"We'll order whatever you want tomorrow night, how about that, Pete?" Steve says, enthusiastic and bright.

Peter wishes he could stop calling him Pete.

"I'm honestly fine with whatever." He says with forced kindness.

 _Not Chinese, not Chinese._

Tony finally looks up from his phone and digs into a spring roll. "Great then, more takeaway for me."

Peter stares at Tony, imagining what he'd look like in place of Uncle Ben.

"Here, here!" the man who says 'little man' raises his glass in a toast. Tony returns it heartily.

.

Flash is waiting for Peter at the end of Chemistry with a look of determination and grief. Peter passes him with a clipped, "Not today, Flash."

Flash appears after PE.

"Not now, either."

Flash keeps on appearing after classes, during lunchtime, it starts getting a little ridiculous by the end of the day making Peter almost break his locker when slamming it shut. Just as he does though, Flash is besides him. Looking earnest.

In the past Peter might have given him the benefit of the doubt.

Now, Peter doesn't have the patience.

He turns heel and stalks down the corridor, bell signalling the last class and people scatter.

"Parker, come on man. Please hear me out."

He jogs up besides him, still talking and all Peter turns to him, wondering what he'd look like dead. Would he look like Uncle Ben? Face slacked into a stupid expression? Mouth open, eyes far as though caught in a thought.

Flash doesn't look anything like that though. He's earnest, apologising for his bad behaviour, giving sincere-sounding condolences for Gwen, Uncle Ben and Aunt -

Peter suddenly shoves Flash into an empty classroom. Slapping away Flash's hands that instinctively come up to protect himself and trapping him against the teacher's desk.

" _What_ the – "

"That expression you have on," Peter cuts in. "I used to look at you like that. Although," his hand reaches out and gently cradles Flash's cheek. The other boy flinches and stares at him wide eyed. Openly unnerved. "My face was bruised from the hits you had given me and I couldn't see for shit, could hardly hear myself pleading for you to stop over my own goddamn heartbeat." His thumb rubs gentle circles under his eye as he says in a soothing voice. "Do you know how pathetic it feels to beg, Flash? I had to lie to my fucking Aunt every time you and your looser friends beat me up. Had to tell my seventy-year-old aunt so many lousy excuses, I'm certain she's wised up and realised her only grandson was being bullied. Do you know how pathetic that made me feel Flash, _do you_? You fucking asshole? To lie. Over and over again to someone I _love_? It's so…" He closes his eyes. Rage building and dying inside of him.

"Parker." Flash whispers.

Peter opens his eyes slowly to see an indescribable expression on the other boy's face.

"My aunt isn't dead," he says. Adamant. " You fucker."

"Parker, what…"

Sighing, drained, Peter backs off. "Stay away, Flash." He warns.

Flash is left standing in an empty classroom.

Stumped.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**I managed to miraculously conjure up a chapter. Hope ya'll enjoy~~**

.

Part II

.

"Peter," Aunt May starts hesitantly. "Where did you go last night?"

The breakfast table is laid out in its typical American-styled home-cooked meal. Crispy bacon, eggs sunny side up, white soft bread singed into toast and a dish of butter in the middle with some strawberry jam on the side for Peter's picking.

' _I'm sick of this_ ,' he thinks. Staring at it all. ' _Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs, copy and paste. Rinse and repeat. Every goddamn fucking morning, Aunt May_.'

Was this placid meal spread on repeat because the man at the deli started being extra nice to Aunt May and giving her free discounts? Probably. Maybe Peter should pay the man a visit after school in in suit. These good intentions could be less than innocent. And suddenly Peter could see the man cornering his poor little Aunt May in the street. His large frame shadowing his Aunt, her expression morphing in to horror as his hand slowly reaches down.

"Peter."

"Yes, Aunt May?" He looks up. She sighs, hand crossing the table to cover his own.

"You can tell me anything, Peter. You know that right?"

Peter stares at her. Registering the tone of voice and look in her eyes. ' _She knows_ ,' he thinks. ' _She knows what I did_.'

For a moment Peter sat silent and thought about what to do. He's very fond of Aunt May. She took him in, nurtured him and cared for him without demanding anything in return.

And without Uncle Ben around along with his income, this home will be a shit show real soon and they'll be tossed out onto the streets. Him left to take care of a frail lady with a beautiful future filled with expensive labs and corporate funding flushed down the toilet.

Some old part of his brain was yelling at him, but Peter quickly shoved it into a box and sat on it.

"Huh." He cocks his head, thinking some more as he stares at her age lines.

Taking it all into considering, what does Peter owe Aunt May? What does he owe this decaying elderly woman that will turn him homeless? He doesn't owe her anything in comparison of his soon-to-be wasted college fund. Living in an orphanage would be better than being on the streets.

That old voice pounded against the box and Peter grips the knife and fork in his hands hard. He didn't like this hesitation. The last time he was hesitant Uncle Ben died in another man's piss.

The pounding in his mind's box began to hurt.

"Now, why did you have to go and ask that, Aunt May?"

.

JARVIS stops him in the elevator the moment Peter returns from patrol.

" _Sir, wants to remind you that the curfew you agreed on was 5pm._ "

It's 2am right now and Peter stares up at the speaker of the elevator. Fists clenching and tingling in beautiful pain after their workout on some guys from downtown. He could still feel their fragile, pathetic bodies coming apart in his hands like rice paper. Peter wants to check recent news reports, eager to see whether the police got his message yet. He hopes so.

Captain Stacey's misery isn't over yet no matter how much he begs on live television.

' _What a weak-willed man._ '

" _You are late by seven hours, twenty-three minutes and seventeen seconds_."

How can a machine be so petty.

Is he mad?" Peter asks, curious to see whether this would be enough to earn a reaction from Stark.

JARVIS is silent and he clucks his tongue.

"Huh."

" _Mr. Rogers expresses his concern and disappointment, he hopes to sit you down for a talk tomorrow before breakfast_."

"I'm thrilled."

.

Peter remembers a time when he forgave people.

He also remembers how they all shoved it back in his face and repeated the same tune over and over and over again. It burns him now, to think back at those times.

What did he expect, really. People don't change out of kindness.

They change from pain.

.

Captain Stacey was the one who was in charge of finding his Uncle's murderer. He was also the one who gave up.

Peter didn't like that.

The man had called and expressed his sincerer regret. Selling the story of a regretful police officer who had failed in their duty to uphold Peace, Justice and Liberty along with other artificial bullshit.

The man should have just shot himself in the head.

Honestly, Peter could have mistook the man's tone for a company asking for charity; it was so full dog crap. He had quickly realised, after the dial tone beeped and the man had hung up, that he simply lacked a decent amount of sympathy. He was unable to empathise with Peter's desire to catch the killer.

Captain Stacey didn't _understand_ what it felt like to have a loved one get murdered.

It didn't matter to Peter that he'd already caught the man himself last night - it was the principle of things.

"I'm going out, Aunt May," he tells the woman sitting still on the stained couch. Putting down the receiver he bends over to kiss her wet forehead. "Don't wait up."

For some reason those words make him giggle.

.

Just as promised, Steve gives him a talk next morning. He comes early, knocking gently on his bedroom door and seating himself down on the bed.

"So?" Peter prompts, straightening from the silent judgment.

"You must be going through more than I initially imagined," Steve says, expression underlying the concern he held.

"Huh." Peter didn't realise humanity still had the capacity for that.

Maybe it's because he's from a time where it was still around.

"I'm sorry for all that you've been through, Pete. No kid your age should have to deal with this. When I fought to end the war, I had an image in my mind of a world without suffering. That ending one war would somehow cure everything."

Peter laughs immediately, looking down and biting his lip to keep it in. Steve smiles wryly and scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"Yeah, but it kept the hope alive. Kept me fighting."

"Are you telling me I should be hopeful?"

"Depends on what you should be hoping for exactly." Steve shrugs, "What's eating at you?"

' _Everything_ ' he doesn't say. Choosing his words carefully, he says, "I guess I'm just lost. My Aunt was attacked in her own home and I couldn't help. Just like with Uncle Ben. I'm useless."

Steve grips his shoulder in a way of comfort. Eyes soft. "Don't blame some sick bastard's idea of fun on yourself, Pete. I know your Aunt wouldn't want that."

Peter pretends to not find amusement in the irony of his words and nods with the appropriate amount of sadness. "I'll try."

"Then I guess what you should be hoping for is moving forward. Have you got any friends to confide in?"

' _Gwen_ …' Peter thinks with a sigh, remembering the sound of bone snapping and his hands soaked in her warmth. "Not anymore. I kind of…pushed her away."

Steve nods seriously, obviously taking Peter's loneliness as something grave. "Then know you have me, along with the others."

Others being the Avengers.

' _A bunch of fucking hypocrites_ ,' he thinks. Smiling at Steve, "Thanks. That means a lot."

And Steve, the gullible moron that he was, buys it wholeheartedly.

"Don't mention it Pete, you're family now."

' _I'll kill him,_ ' Peter's bruised hands twist in the bed sheets. ' _I swear to God I'll fucking kill him. I'll kill him is he calls me Pete one more Goddamn time._ '

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

It's a cold day. His breath steams. Warm copper buds through the mask. Peter licks his lips.

Above the dull roar of Iron Man's rockets warm the top of his head.

"You're beat, asshole."

A blue and red figure drops into the entrance of the alleyway. Successfully restricting one possible escape route. Looking up, he spots Hawkeye and Black Widow strategically placed in a fire escape and rooftop. Peter tries not to squirm. Feeling tiny, but excited.

"Iron Man," Captain America says, "is the guy – "

"Dead," Iron Man says. Toneless. "What's the crime this time, Spidey? Petty theft? Did he steal your grandma's knickerbockers?"

Actually it was beating his six year old niece into a coma and causing irreparable brain damage.

Peter shrugs all the same. Giving the dead man one last surreptitious kick in the stomach before leaping over Hawkeye's arrow. Shooting a web at the fire escape he tugs. Hard. The metal caves where Hawkeye is sited and the man drops ten feet.

"Son-of-a-bitch," he hears Iron Man growl.

.

They don't catch him.

They never do.

But it's always close.

.

" – cannot go on eating takeaway! He's a growing boy."

Peter halts in the hallway as he comes out of his room. Enhanced hearing picking up the echoes of an argument. Miss Potts, he recognizes one voice, the other isn't hard to guess.

"Jesus I know, okay?" says Tony. Voice pitched in coiled frustration. "I get this enough from Cap and the team as it is and it sucks but I'm _busy_. I have a company to run along with the Avengers. I don't have time to take care of some kid."

"Some kid?"

Chagrined but not entirely, he goes on to say: "Bruce and Cap sometime cook."

"Bruce is sporadic and Steve's culinary skills come from the Great Depression. Wouldn't trust that man to cook an omelette. This doesn't inspire much hope! Tony, when you agreed to Social Services to take in Peter, your last living _relative_. You promised to be responsible for his health and wellbeing. From what Steve's told me, you barely even speak to him. What should I think, huh? Should I send Peter off back to the orphanage where he'll be properly taken care of?"

"Pep," Peter cocks his head at the tone. "I'm trying."

"Not hard enough. He's not some cactus you can leave after watering. He's a sixteen year old kid all alone in the world. Everyone he loves is either dead or stuck in a coma after getting beaten half to death in a home invasion. Remind you of someone?"

"Don't go there."

"I don't want to either," Pepper warns, "but you're not giving me much choice here, Tony. Suck it up and commit."

Peter moves back from the hallway and into his room. Pretending to not have heard.

.

Mr Danvers assigns the class a group bio project. Peter and Flash are paired up along with one of his friends. It's clear to everyone who's doing the work.

When Mr Danvers is immersed in his laptop, Peter turns to the assembled group, breaking a smile and says: "Leave it to me. I already know the material." Wouldn't be the first time. He's silently appalled at their level of education. "I'll email you the cliff notes when I'm done in case Mr Danvers surprises us with a pop quiz."

"Thanks, Parker," Corey says. Elbowing Flash, "Hey, then we can check out that _thing_ after school."

"I'm not really into that kind of thing anymore, man. You'll be alright alone, yeah?"

 _Drugs_.

Peter could smell it on Corey's breath. Saw clumped bits of white stuck in between his teeth.

Saw it in the man who killed Ben.

And Peter couldn't stand that. To kill Ben, good, kind Ben who deserved the world, for some drug money? He had punched those rotten teeth into his mouth and forced the man to swallow.

He wished he could go back and do more. Ben deserved more.

Peter keeps his eyes on Corey throughout Bio. Where did Corey get the money? Off those people he bullies? People like Ben?

He starts wondering. Trying to control his viciousness.

Those _teeth_. He couldn't stop staring. Until when will they rot and he kills somebody out of pathetic desperateness? Killing Ben?

 _Oh my_ , Corey Green. Fingers clench into a fist.

 _Oh_ _ **my**_

.

Breakfast went from post takeaway dishes and half-cooked eggs into a full coursed All-American meal.

Tony hired a chef.

A skinny Asian-American who smiles too much and thinks the world of the Avengers. Peter doesn't hate him, but he _is_ thoroughly annoyed that he openly stated his support in Avengers bringing Spider Man to justice.

As though what he's doing is _wrong_.

He sits at the table. Eating a sausage and thinking his Aunt did it better. _She_ would support him. If she understood. Peter knows it.

Tony comes back to the table from a phone call, looking tense. "Hey, um, Peter?"

"Hm?"

Jutting a finger to the hallway he asks, "Spare a moment? It's important."

And so Peter finds himself getting asked,

"At school did you know a Corey Green?"

"I got grouped with him for a biology project, yeah. Why?"

Tony doesn't beat around the bush, "He was found murdered last night."

" _What_?"

He winces. "The school rang to get permission from the guardians whether the police could come round and ask questions," he eyes Peter. As though truly valuing his opinion, "You alright with that?"

"Yeah," Peter says good-naturedly. "Sure, anything to help."

.

The police remember who Peter is. The kid who's Uncle died and boyfriend of their Captain's dead daughter.

They barely ask him anything.

Peter doesn't appreciate the cotton-balled treatment. They were police and should do their Goddamned job properly without any interfering emotions whatsoever.

See, it was things like this that had lead to Gwen's death. Incompetence.

 _These ignorant bastards_ , he thinks when he's allowed to go.

"I hope you catch whoever did it. Corey was a great guy," Peter jokes through gritted teeth and a smile.

"Don't worry, Mr Parker. We will."

Yeah, _right_.

.

The school holds a funeral for Corey. People who Peter knew for certain didn't like the guy, was cursing the very ground he stood on just yesterday, cry during assembly. Saying how he had _such a kind soul_ and was simply _misunderstood_.

Clearly, people forgot he was found with a stash of cocaine.

Peter has to keep thinking of reasons to not walk out halfway through the ceremony.

.

School isn't a person. It's a system. It doesn't care about the health and needs of its students. It doesn't care if someone dies, homework still needed to be handed in on time. Exams still needed to be studied for. Time goes on. A person is dead.

 _Yada yada yada…_

Peter emails Flash his cliff notes, gets one back saying he doesn't understand what it means and asks to meet up at a café to go over it. Peter breathes in hard, squeezes his hands and agrees.

.

Since his repeated curfew breaking, Peter was required to tell JARVIS about his comings and goings. Since he was meeting Flash after school, he resorts to sending Tony a text.

[ _To: Tony Stark_ ]

[ _Working on an assignment with a friend. At Café *** until sometime between four and five_ ]

The reply comes immediate.

[ _From: Tony Stark_ ]

[ _Okay. Text me if you'll be late so I don't have to send out a search party_ ]

.

Flash has circles under his eyelids and was putting in exactly zero effort to memorise Peter's note. Peter wonders why he even agreed to this in the first place.

 _My record would be soured._

Oh that's right.

"I still don't get it," Flash murmurs. "The difference – "

"You don't have to understand it," Peter cuts in, tone measured to not make people look over to their booth. "Just memorise."

"But…" Flash looks confused. Fingers picking at the napkin that came with his coffee.

"Look," Peter says, disbelieving and edging on full-blown annoyance. "If you really wanna understand everything there is about inorganic compounds, I'll email you some youtube links. But until then memorise this shit so we can get a full grade."

"Mr Danvers won't believe I wrote this," Flash indicates to the printed out sheets from the powerpoint Peter made. Sullen. " _I_ wouldn't believe me."

Peter closes his eyes for second, finding patience in himself, then opening them again.

"Flash, just memorise. It doesn't matter what he thinks. He won't care. And if he _does_ suspect something and gives us a bad grade everyone will talk shit about him for weeks on end."

"Er, why?"

"People love to put on the baby gloves to people in grief," Peter pointedly looks Flash up and down.

Flash stares. "Are you serious right now?"

"As a heart attack."

"Jesus Christ, Parker," Flash leans back in his chair to wipe at his face with both hands. Exhaustion rippling through him. Peter watches in confusion at this alien taking over Flash. "I can't do that. Corey deserves better than that type of stuff. You…" he looks at him again. Checking something in Peters face. "What happened to you? You would have never have done this before…" he breaks himself off. Uneasy.

Peter's smile turns sharp, "Before my Uncle's death, you mean? Don't worry, you can say his name."

Flash frowns, "I was gonna say Gwen."

"Oh," he says. Thinking about Gwen's blonde hair in his grip and as he stares at Flash he see's her dead eyes staring back. Mouth dry he mutters, "… _Her_."

Flash sighs, looking up at the ceiling, "Sorry man, I'm a mess right now. If I agreed to hang out with him after school he'd probably still be alive."

Peter doubts that. He very much doubts that. "You'd only be dead as well, Flash."

The guy says nothing to that and it seriously unnerves Peter seeing Flash so _different_.

"Can we go over it again?" Flash asks after a few seconds of silence. "Just once more?"

Peter debates with himself then checks his watch at the time, "I suppose I can spare twenty minutes."

.

Please review (:


	4. Chapter 4

Bet you thought you'd seen the last of this.

.

Peter accompanies Tony to a charity ball one night. Plucked, washed and dressed in a tuxedo like a poodle for a Petting Show. He spent the evening keeping to the sides. Brushing off reporters and ghosting the nibble table. Eventually it gets all a bit too much and he slides out the back doors. Obscure. Forgotten.

Unnoticed.

The back alley to the museum where the ball is held is rank with dried pee and molded trash. The smell and state takes him back. He can hear the explosions of gunfire and the weight of his uncles' body.

Peter laughs maniacally and palms his chest. Feeling nothing.

A can clattered in a roll and out behind a garbage bin pops the scruffy, dirty face of a bum. He mumbles something in concern and Peter takes out a couple dollar bills. Breathing hard. The bum's face lightens up.

Peter pockets the cash and laughs in the bums face.

The backdoor opens and Peter swallows composure at seeing Steve. Containing himself.

"There you are," the man relieved a sigh. "Are you alright?"

"Peachy," Peter chirped. Squeezing Steve's shoulder companionably as he walked past the man. "Just needed to catch my breath."

They were in the back entrance, just behind the noises of the kitchen. Steve gently grabbed his arm and got him to face those blue patriotic eyes.

"Would you like to go home? I know these things can be a bit…" his face scrunched up, "overwhelming the first couple times."

Peter looked back to the kitchen, beyond that was the hall. The reporters. The gawking and rumours and hushed discussions on Spiderman. They hated him. Called him things. Peter didn't appreciate people being so openly… _rude_. Distasteful.

He could picture their white vests overflowing in red as he kissed their necks and sliced it open like the head of a pig. Shutting them up.

"Yeah," he decided. Turning back to Steve. Smiling a distraught sort of smile. "Yeah I'd like that, Steve."

The man wrapped his arm across his shoulders, patted his chest. "I know bud. Let's get out of here."

.

The group project get's an A+. The grade is handed over silently. Mr Danvers catches his eyes, a knowing disappointed look.

Peter turns in his seat to Flash and whispers in his ear, "I told you so."

.

Corey lived in a housing district for emancipated minors. Nobody had bothered to clean the place out yet, because nobody truly cared. Someone would come in, maybe the next tenant. And steal all his shit.

Peter found himself slipping through the bathroom window of the place and moseying about after school on his patrol. He had texted Stark some pretty thing about being with Flash again. The man doesn't double check his location.

It's probably not even him Peter's texting, but his AI. JARVIS.

He drops onto the mattress on the living room floor and picks up the first comic besides it, ignoring the porn. He sits there reading it. Breathing in the moulded walls and damp carpet.

He rummages through the pockets of discarded jeans and earns himself some money. He finds drugs in the sock drawer and flushes them down the toilet.

Then he goes back out and kills some perverts.

.

Later, around two in the morning as he laid in bed too bored to sleep, his phone rings. It glows his room a luminescent blue. Peter doesn't pick it up. Five minutes later it rings again.

He resigns to answering, failing to acknowledge he was even there.

"….Parker?"

 _Flash_?

Calmly, Peter droned, "You have reached Peter Parkers number - "

"Oh fuck off, Parker I know you've picked up."

"Why," Peter sighed, "are you calling me at this god forsaken time. I could have been sleeping or masturbating."

"Shit man I don't need to know tha- _you purposefully ignored my call?_ "

"Why, Flash?" Peter demanded.

For a moment he thought the call had either disconnected or Flash had simply hung up when he heard a sniff, "'Cause you were the only one I could."

Peter narrowed his eyes, "Meaning?"

"It's been rough, Parker. This year's been really….really fuckin' rough. You know?"

His face twisted into a grimace. _Oh my God,_ he internally moaned. "Sure."

"Sometimes," Flash paused, "I think you're the only one who actually gets it. My Dad - " he cut himself off and Peter perked.

Gently, as to not spook him Peter asked, "Yeah, Flash?"

"He's worse. Been drinking more. Expecting me to be this, cliche jock with a full ride to some prep school." He laughed, "I don't even want to be a jock I want to be a fucking artist -Parker, don't laugh at this."

Stifling a giggle Peter coughed, "Well, that's something I never saw coming. What, you going to confess to being head over heels for Captain fuckin' America?"

"Screw you." Flash snorted.

"You know I live with him now."

"I heard," Flash groaned. "how's that going?"

"It's terrific."

"Bad, huh?"

Peter blinked, and said, slowly, "No."

"Really bad, then."

"…Yeah." He hadn't anticipated that.

"Listen, we're friends right?"

Peter snorted.

"Good," Flash yawned, "It's late, I'll see you at school tomorrow Parker."

The call beeped in an end and Peter stared at his lock screen - a selfie of him and Gwen, smiling and happy - bemused and irritated.

.

Unable to sleep, Peter slips out. JARVIS warning him he will report it to his 'sir' the moment he awakens.

"You do that, WALL-E."

His spider suit is kept in a safe place.

The family tomb.

The cemetery is just a quick hop, jump and a skip away. Tomb unmanned for, it's easy for Peter to push off the sarcophagus of his mother's burial and exchange the clothes he wears for his suit.

Some would find this all repellent, Peter finds it fitting. Poetic.

Easy to manage.

Batman has his batcave, Spiderman has his mother's sarcophagus.

Potato poh-tah-toh.

He spends his night sleepless and full of exhilarating violence.

.

Peter turns Hells Kitchen into his new stomping ground. Flies his way through the streets. Gliding on webs and heads in his wake.

All too quickly, somebody took notice.

Enhanced, Peter could hear them. Under the hissing noises of blood squirting through wounds of his victim's skull.

"I've heard of you," Peter says. Rising from his crouched position. He wiped his mask, smearing blood. "The Devil of Hell's kitchen."

Something solid and long shot at his head from behind. Peter dodged, caught the thing as it tried to retract and pulled. The Devil allowed it to propel a well aimed kick to his ribs.

He leapt back. Wheezes of laughter.

"F- _u_ -n."

They engage each other and Peter thinks this Devil is a riot.

"Sadly," he said, voice exhausted of breath. They were on a roof, and beyond the Devil's collapsed frame stubbornly trying to stand up on a broken knee, Peter caught the glow of a looming horizon. "I have to get going. Things to take care of, blah blah blah. See you around, Devil. Take care of the knee."

He swung off. Blowing a kiss as he did.

.

Bucky is waiting for him outside after school. He whistled through fingers and waves his metal arm. Peter tries his best not to glare.

"Introduce me!" Flash came up beside him in a hiss.

"No," Peter growled. Grumbling as he made his way to Barnes. The man tossed him a spare helmet.

"Tony's pissed," he said sweetly.

"Oh goodie," Peter fake cheered. He had managed to avoid his uncle this morning, having gone without sleep the escaped was quick and simple.

"Who's your friend?"

"Nobo - "

"Flash Thompson, sir." The boy got in before he could and shook Barnes' hand, the flesh one.

"It's Bucky, no sir," Barnes corrected good naturally. "Hop on, Pete. Your uncle's a-waitin'."

Flash bid Peter a goodbye. Together he and Bucky rode off on his old-fashioned motorbike.

.

"Peter," Tony said - a declarative statement of doom - as Peter entered his lab. Backpack slung over one shoulder, thoughts of dread in his mind. The beat up Iron Man Suit lay in pieces across the bench his uncle bent over. Clothes in a state of distressed oil. Tony gestured him to come closer. In a sigh, Peter did so. "Hand me that screw driver over there."

Silently, Peter handed Tony bits and pieces until the Suit stopped resembling a Picasso painting.

Tony stepped back from his work and gave Peter a once over. "You haven't slept."

"I did."

"Where then," asked Tony. Sitting down on his stool and crossing his arms. "Because your bed hasn't been slept in. You left at 2:45 am and only returned to grab your school gear."

"Yeah," said Peter. Trying to smile - it looked more like a grimace. "That happened."

"Where did you _go_?" Tony demanded.

"To Flashs'," Peter said. Wondering whether Tony bought that causally blatant lie.

"Flash, Flash, Flash," Tony echoed irritably. "And if I call up his parents, they'll agree."

Peter doesn't know much about Flash's home-life - only that his father was some sort of bastard. Heaven knows where his mother was.

"Go right ahead," Peter urged. Not even bothering to keep his tone semi-polite. He started walking back to the lift, kicking the portable robot cleaner as he went. Fucking jerk-off.

"The _hell_ did you say?" Tony asked, incredulous.

'Jesus!' Peter thought, 'did I _say_ that?' "Nothing," he dismissed. Pressing the up button.

The lift arrived and he stepped in, doors closing on Tony's shocked face.

He swears contemptuously.

.

The tip of his hunting knife twirled on a page of his textbook.

Absent in thought.

On the wooden grip were stains. Deep crimson. Residue of splattered blood. He's washed the thing twice now but it wouldn't seep. Looking at it under lamplight, metal shining his warped reflection in its sears, Peter didn't mind one bit.

The door knocks and he flips it shut, hiding it in his pencil case.

"Yeah?" He called, swinging back on his chair to face the visitor.

In pops Clint's head. "Wanna play some Mario Cart?"

.

Thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

This is very messed up. Enjoy.

.

Steve, the shining beacon of hope for good ol' America - a man who prays every night, sun beaming out of his ass, poops rainbows - has stood in the kitchen for a solid 30 minutes while Peter and Clint play Mario Cart.

Peter pretends to ignore him.

Kicking Clints' ass on the rainbow bridge and winning for the tenth consecutive time.

"I think you should say something."

"Why don't you." Peter said. Flicking through different race sets.

"Cause it's not me who he wants to talk to."

He goes on ignoring Steve before relenting and twisting around. " _Yeah_?" He sighed. "What's _up_ , Steve?"

"Oh?" Steve blinked. Looking distracted and worried at the same time as surprised. As though he had thought nobody noticed his looming shadow. "What're you playing?"

"Mario Cart."

Steve nodded as though this were some sort of vital information. "Can I join?"

Clint made room, and Peter's guessing they're in on something when the bird man dismisses himself to the toilet. Peter goes on ignoring the clear sky eyes, still flicking through racing grounds on the tv.

"Aah, I don't know how to play," is what Steve confesses as the countdown begins.

All Peter could think about was the knife in his pencil case and how good it would look being lodged down somebody's throat.

"Just do what I do," Peter says, farthest thing from mind.

Steve catches on quickly, and pretty soon he overtakes Peter. He's grinning and Peter raises his eyebrows.

"You've played this before."

"Nope!" Steve chirps. "Hey, do you play this with your friend, Flash - right?"

"Barnes told you."

"Yeah," Steve said, guiltily. "You should bring him over."

Peter glares at the screen, forcing himself to not push the controller buttons too hard. "He's a busy guy."

"Still," Steve said, showing a hint of skepticism. "We'd all love to meet your friend."

"I don't know, Steve," Peter gave a timid shrug.

"It's only fair, given all the times he's appeared to lend you a place to sleep." He looks at him and takes no care how his avatar veers off the jungle track and crashes into a tree. "We don't want him thinking bad of us - "

"Listen," Peter tries not to snap. _Jesus._ "I just don't want him over, is that so hard to accept?"

Steve sat there, confused but nodding. "Alright, Pete. If that's what you want."

"Yeah. Thanks," he muttered. Hitting play on the game and continues in silence. Steve's half of the tv screen was black and white. Suspended in a crash.

.

Peter finds Flash in the library after twenty minutes of scouring the school for him.

"Why are you _here_?" He hisses the question. Flash was plopped in the middle of a book teepee in the science section. He blinked owlishly. Cheek showing a pretty shiner. "Your dad punch you?"

"Yeah," the confession came and _God_ , Peter thought uneasily, _he's gotten attached_. "Haven't slept either - been here all morning," he gave a pathetic little shrug. "Didn't want the guys to see me."

"So you chose studying as a form of sleep therapy." Peter sat down and picked up a book on advanced chemistry.

Flash snorted, "My lame attempt at understanding that fucking assignment."

" _Great_ ," said Peter. Clapping his hands. "Hey, I need a favour. As a friend."

"Okay?" Flashed responded with some uncertainty.

" _Hypo_ thetically, if anyone asks, I slept at your house last night - and any other night that happens to come up."

"Hypothetically…" Flash blinked. "Are we talking about the _Avengers_ by any chance?"

"Um, well," Peter 'tsk'd. "Perhaps."

"… _Really_?" Flash stared. Emphatically. Coming alive behind the eyes."The fucking _Avengers_ , Parker? You want me to _lie_ to the _fucking Avengers_?"

"As a friend," Peter added, "Hypothetically."

"Christ." Flash hissed. He leaned against the shelf, bruised cheek ugly under the yellow glare of lights. Tentatively, he eyed Peter. "What's this about? Why would they be asking where you were - and why can't you say?"

"Hey," Peter started laughing. Adopting a boyish grin. "I'm an orphan. Give me a break -"

"Parker," Flash warned.

Composed, Peter admitted, not lying, "I'd like to keep _some_ part of my life, my own. That's all."

"...I get that. Alright," Flash sighed after a beat, fingers gently rubbing his cheek. "I'll help. And you know, you _can_ stay over whenever you want - my old man doesn't act up when people are around. So, you don't have to lie, dude. I got you."

"Thanks, Flash. I appreciate that," he meant it.

.

Peter tucked his pencil behind his ear and tried to downplay the disdain he felt for the girl next to him. The drawing on his canvas was some lame portrait of himself. The teacher wanted them to show her how they _feel_ about themselves in the recent passing of Cole.

God knows what the _fuck_ his painting said.

The girl - blonde like Gwen and unhealthily thin - sniffed her red crusted nose and slapped some paint on her own portrait. He could _smell_ the cocaine.

He stares at her. Pink, watery paint looking like blood as she continues her wild creation. Side profile bobbling into Gwen. She turns to him and he can see her staring back.

"Cat got your tongue, Peter?" Gwen chuckles. "You got a problem?" Stephanie asked.

"Have you eaten?"

Stephanie looks at him, all confused and bleary-eyed. "No, why?"

"I'd like to take you out after school," he leaned in to whisper so only she could hear. "Meet me at the bus stop later?"

She looks away for a second, stunned. Blushing she reply's a weak, "Sure."

.

Two hours later Peter will impatiently lead her away from the bus stop and ask where she gets her drugs. She will be suspicious, but naively trust him - he's Peter Parker, wings clipped and broken beyond repair - and when she eventually takes him to her dealer in the red district, wondering about their 'date', Peter will flip out his knife and stab the dealer in the stomach.

Blade in the soft part beneath the rib cage. Dragging it down his belly and watching his insides spill outside.

Stephanie will be too surprised to do much of anything and when he turns her her she brings her arms up.

They get slashed.

He pulls her blonde hair back, reminiscent of his girlfriend's - Gwen will be in her eyes laughing at him and Peter will shout at her to _shut up!_

Pushing the tip of the blade into the eye socket and across. Slicing over the bridge of her button nose, and over the other eye.

Blood oozes, and Peter shuts the screams by severing her trachea.

He can't help but laugh as he gets sprayed.

Wet like a bath and white converse ruined beyond repair.

.

"Fucking druggies."

Peter takes a deep inhale of copper and expired shit in the alley and almost slips on the puddle seeping around Stephanie's body. At that moment, his phone beeped in his pocket. Taking another breath, he wipes his hands on the back of his trousers and checks the message.

[Steve:]

 _[Hey bud, when will you be home? Any plans with Flash?]_

[Peter:]

 _[Yeah. Will be home for dinner]_

 _[Steve:]_

 _[Cool (:]_

Grimacing at the smiley face he worked to dumping the bodies in the council trash bins.

[Peter:]

 _[At your place. If anyone asks.]_

[Flash:]

 _[K]_

Minutes later.

[Flash:]

 _[If the Avengers turn up on my doorstep I'll kill you]_

It made Peter chuckle.

.

The clothes Corey had in his drawers fit Peter one size larger, but did fine. Exchanging his stained shoes for dirty ones that that smelt like wet mould and dog.

' _Evening, young Sir_ ,' JARVIS spoke above as he entered the lift. ' _You're just in time for dinner_.'

"What're we having this time? More Chinese, Thai - ooh," he shimmied in faux excitement, "or, _Turkish_ , or _uh_ ," Peter continued, wondering whether the AI could catch his sarcasm, "are we being adventurous tonight and having some good ol' fashioned American _piz_ za!"

Peter gets the feeling the AI is giving him a _look_. "What?" He smirks up at the ceiling. "Did I get your wires in a twist? Tickle a wrong circuit?"

' _Sir, cooked vegetarian bolognese_.'

"How thoughtful. He didn't poison it, did he?" He asked, intrigued. "Cause he'll have to do a lot worse than that to get rid of me."

 _'Very droll, young Sir._ "

The elevator dinged open and he stepped out onto the main floor. In the open kitchen he could spot Tony serving up pasta and his weird concoction into various dinner bowls. The Avengers were gathered helping. Rhodes waved at him to join.

Peter saunters like a man returning from a good fucking.

.

False pleasantries aside, Peter actually ends up enjoying dinner for once and wastes no time in getting a second serving.

"Careful," Sam eyes him and the pasta, "or you'll throw up."

"I have a large appetite," Peter shrugs off his concern.

"I'm just happy you like it," Steve says. Grinning at Tony, the man studiously eyeing his glass of pepsi. "See? There was no need to worry."

"Huh?" Peter tells him, confused.

"Tony was worried he'd poison you with his cooking," Natasha clues him in matter-of-factly as she ate. Completely neutral with his death.

Peter stares at Steve. "Nice."

"It all turned out fine in the end, didn't it?" Steve smiles. Radiating a positivity Peter only saw in people who were high as a kite. "How's Flash?"

"Fine." He clips, gripping the armchair.

"Hey, Flash's your bestie isn't he?" Clint asks.

Peter too, smiles like a happy fucking camper and goes, "Sure."

"Steve says you don't want to have him over," Tony says For once, meeting Peter's eyes. "Any reason why?"

Peter counts twelve knives on the table, and one pulsing vein in Tony's neck. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" The man echoes. "Well, great then. Let's hear it."

The table faces Peter in total silence.

Steve shaking his head at Tony - the man staring at Peter in cheery expectancy, and Peter - he finishes his drink and stands.

"Thanks for the dinner, Tony. I've got some homework to finish."

As he leaves the room, dinner plate half-finished he heard Steve kick Tony in the shin and hiss, " _Oh yeah, that wasn't cornering him at all!"_

" _I tried! It's not my fault he's all cagey."_

 _"He's a teenager, Tony. Of course he's cagey!"_

.

Come another day, another week, Daredevil finds him.

Swooping out of shadows. Teeth bared and weapon sheering past Peter's temple like a bullet.

"How many will this make?" The Devil shouts at him as they danced from alley to rooftop. "How many until you're satisfied?"

Peter resits the impulse to start cackling manically. Catching Daredevil off guard and breathing in his face. The eyes of the red suit gleams milky blood at him from a neon sign above. "You're so cute making assumptions." He kisses the tip of the suit's nose and doesn't bother resisting the impulse any longer.

He throws himself back, somersaulting off the roof in a cackle.

The man's growl of fury vibrates the very centre of his chest and Peter wonders whether he will suddenly implode from it.

.

Tony calls him into his lab one morning before school. He's working on his suit again. Exposed on the left leg was damage control from the night before's tussle with Spiderman. Metal ripped open with leftover webbing patched around it. In any given moment, it will disintegrate.

"I heard from your guidance counsellor you've got the highest grade in biochemistry in the state," Tony says. Speaking with his back to him as he used tweezers to pluck a sample of Peter's webbing into a petri dish. "Mind helping me with figuring out what this shi- _stuff_ is?"

Peter stood still. Staring at Tony's offer and taking in the sheer fuckoonery of it.

"Sure," he smiles, taking the sample. Genuine and delightful. "Anything to help you catch Spiderman."

Tony pats his back and guides him to a top of the range microscope. Saying teasingly, "If you end up being late to school I'll write a note. Tell them you're busy helping me save the world from a psychotic serial killer. How bout that?"

"I can't disagree," Peter laughs weakly.

.

In Assembly the principle breaks news of Stephanie's murder. Everyone's all shook up, but most of all. Everyone's trying to remember who exactly Stephanie Myer was. She was a nobody. Some pretty girl in that druggie group who hung under the bleachers and smoked the day away.

Flash knew her. He knew everybody.

"She didn't deserve it," he tells Peter during World History. The teacher was showing the class a documentary on Titanic, to calm everyone's nerves. They sat on their desks in the back. Secluded and alone. "I heard her eyes were gouged open."

Peter's worried Flash might start crying.

"She did have pretty eyes," he yawns, stretching.

Flash hung his head, "She did."

It was a peculiar response. "Hey, did you two ever," Peter nudged him in a whisper, " _do the nasty?_ "

Flash pauses, fingering the edge of the desk.

"Oh my God," Peter chuckles, "you _did_."

"Shut it, Parker."

.

[Flash:]

[IRON MAN JUST PARKED OUTSIDE]

[Peter:]

[ok b there soon]

[Flash:]

[WHY R U SO CALM!]

[Flash:]

[MY DAD SOUNDS LIKE HES GONNA FIGHT UR UNCLE!]

[Peter:]

[Open ur window]

Flash was just texting [ITS ALREADY OPEN?! DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?] when Peter comes flying in and lands on the floor of his bedroom. Panting and brow dripping with sweat.

The first thing flash notices is the blood on his shirt.

"Did you get into a fight?" He asks. "Is that the secret - you're in a fight club!"

Peter looks over himself, half embarrassed at the red splatters. "Oh," he breaths. "Yea."

Flash just shakes his head in confused disbelief. "Fucking _un_ believable."

"Can I borrow a shirt?" He asks, head cocking to the loud shouting downstairs. "My uncle might get mad if he knows."

"No shit." Casually, Flash reaches under his bedsheet and tosses Peter a green shirt. "Better you stink than look like a baby Brad Pitt."

Flipping him the finger, Peter dumps his backpack and undresses himself. It takes less than five seconds to understand why Flash is suddenly so quiet.

"That's a lot of bruises, Parker."

"Fight Club," Peter flashes him a boyish grin. The worry that flickers across Flash's face prickles something inside of him. Maybe an echo of a memory.

 _Ben_.

 _"What're you doin' Peter?"_

"Peter! C'mon bud time to go!" The doorknob jiggles and Peter's muscles tense. Racing to slip the top on to cover himself. Unexpected - horrible - hands join in to help with the collar but only serve to tangle his head through the small opening even more so.

"You motherfucker!" Peter hisses, panting when it finally slips over his head and he can breathe. Eyes glowering at Flash.

Who has this awkward grin in place. His own eyes grazing just past his ear to the person in the doorway.

"So," Tony drawls. "This is Flash? Your _friend_?"

Flash's bedroom suddenly seems to Peter to be the coldest room in the entire universe. He shivers, twisting around to stare at his stone-faced uncle.

"In the car Peter. Chop chop."

He seethed.

.


End file.
